Lots of stories - and I'm not even a patroller. I've been both a volunteer instructor for disabled skiers and a certified instructor in the "regular" adult ski school at a major western resort.
Incident 1
I'm guiding a fairly skilled visually impaired skier down a wide (yes, we make 'em wide in the west - in fact, it's common to run snow cat tours on slopes populated with skiers) groomed intermediate run when another skier straight-lining from above her misses her by a matter of inches, despite her bright orange "Blind Skier" bib. Naturally, she and I are not too happy about this, but, you know, stuff happens. Anyway, this skier rides up on the side of the slope, which is shaped sort of like a very big, broad half-pipe, slows down, and falls just before going into the trees. Then he squirms around on his hip, gets up, and proceeds to straight-line it back across the slope, where he rides up on the other side, finally slows down, and falls again. At this point, his friends catch him, so he doesn't leave immediately, and my skier and I are able to catch up with him. I attempt to suggest to him, politely, that he really needs to keep an eye out for other people on the slope, and that a ski lesson or two might be helpful. His response: "I don't need lessons. I can ski fine. I just can't stop or turn."
Incident 2
I'm out cruising alone one day, and I see a kid (yes, male - we're the testosterone-addled gender)
walking down an intermediate run
in his stocking feet! No boots, no skis.
Well, this is the west, folks. It may not seem far when you're gliding on skis or riding in the chair, but when you're walking in stocking feet in the snow, it's a long, long way even to the mid-mountain lodge, which is where he thought he was going.
It seems he attempted to trade equipment with his snowboarding buddy, but after falling approximately 37 times in the first 50 feet, he decided to go back to skiing. Unfortunately, he couldn't get the now cold and rigid ski boots back on his feet, so his friends took the equipment and left him to walk down.
With visions of frostbite dancing merrily in my head, I escorted him to a nearby patrol phone, called for a snowmobile, and wrapped him in the blankets attached to the sled cached by the phone. It took the snowmobile about 15 minutes to show up (they've got higher priorities than mere stupidity, and they had given me permission to use the blankets), and they took him down to the main day lodge, where he presumably had some idea where his street shoes were.
Incident 3 - the accident
And then there was the time I hit a frozen ridge of ice in the early season next to a cat track, double ejected, and soared gracefully across the cat track, like Superman, until I landed not so gracefully on my face. Unfortunately, my right fist, still holding my ski pole, was forced abruptly into my left collarbone. I broke it. The collarbone, not the ski pole.
After waiting for the wave of nausea to pass, I had a choice. I could wait for patrol to show up, and be the beneficiary of a most likely somewhat bouncy and painful ride down the mountain (you know the suspension system in those sleds is just...nonexistant). Or I could ski down, smoothly and relatively pain-free, and risk making the injury much worse if I fell down again. Remember what I said above about testosterone? Of course, I gathered up my poles with my uninjured right hand, stepped into my skis, and skied down. Luckily, nothing happened and I arrived at the bottom with no further problems.
I put my skis and poles away, got out of my boots somehow, and walked into the mountain clinic and announced I had a broken collarbone. Since this resort is in a location that has very limited medical services, the clinic had an MD on duty and an X-ray machine. On site. At the mountain. Cash or charge. Insurance not accepted.
Anyway, the X-ray confirmed that, despite not having a medical degree and several years of orthopedic residency, I had somehow arrived at the correct diagnosis. They informed me that the usual treatment for a broken collarbone is nothing, or nearly nothing. "Here's a sling. Enjoy sitting around for the next six weeks." I vetoed the butterfly harness, since I lived alone at the time and would have no way to get it back on once I got it off.
Incident 3 - the bus ride
Now, to make a long story longer, you should know that I was on a Demo Day trip put together by a ski shop in Fort Collins, Colorado. This trip was popular with the medical community in Fort Collins, so I got to ride back to Fort Collins on a bus with a bunch of doctors, who were passing around my x-rays and offering various learned opinions. You should also know that there were two buses. The orthopedists were on the other bus. One doctor told me to get myself to the hospital when we got back and get the bone set. I asked him his specialty, since this opinion conflicted with previous advice. "Eye, ear, nose and throat." I thanked him. I did not go to the hospital.
Incident 3 - the parking lot medical consultation
Upon our return to the ski shop parking lot, I met briefly with one of the orthopedists from the other bus, who looked at my X-rays in the headlights of my truck and agreed with everyone else that I did indeed have a broken collarbone. He also confirmed that there was little to do except wait to see if the two ends would find each other and grow back together. I went in to his office the next day and arranged for a six-week follow-up.
Incident 3 - epilogue
I was committed to begin guiding visually impaired skiers 4 weeks after the accident. I could barely hold a pole, and pole plants were right out of the question. Nonetheless, I skied, and guided. What can I say? Testosterone, again.
I went to see the orthopedist at six weeks. He x-rayed the collarbone, and said, "It looks like it's throwing down some material and it's going to knit. We won't have to open you up and pin it. I'll release you to ski if you promise not to fall on it."
I said, "Lee, I've been skiing for two weeks already."
He grinned and said, "Well, I guess you didn't fall on it."
He's a skier. He understands.
